


Broken

by larascasse



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Blood, Hand Job, Kissing, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-07-16 17:45:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7277743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larascasse/pseuds/larascasse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jenson is a beautiful slave fighter and Nico is a prince with a dangerous curiosity for the beautiful.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A fill for this Understeers prompt: http://understeers.livejournal.com/9899.html?thread=41899#t41899</p>
<p>'you cut up a thing that's alive and beautiful to find out how it's alive and why it’s beautiful, and before you know it, it's neither of those things, and you're standing there with blood on your face and tears in your sight and only the terrible ache of guilt to show for it.'- clive barker</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken

“Him. I want him,” Prince Nico ordered, pointing to the man standing in the middle of the arena, waving at the crowd with a broad smile, lips curled perfectly upwards while his opponent struggled on all fours, trying to get back up. Nico had spent his morning watching the fights, looking to obtain a new fighter to replace the one he had recently sold after an intolerable losing streak. He’d seen many talented fighters throughout the morning; one in particular, a young German, had amazed him with his speed and the perfection of his fighting moves, but Nico knew he wasn’t the one, though he’d no doubt be a tough adversary for whomever he would choose. There had been a Spaniard as well, one he’d seen fight before, samurai-like, playing mind games with his enemy. He was one of the most highly rated fighters, but again, Nico didn’t want him, didn’t care for trickery and deceit. The one he wanted, the one he would have, at any cost, was standing in front of him, giving him a quick bow before turning to his opponent, who had finally regained his footing.

Nico watched the rest of the fight, watched his fighter lunge towards the younger opponent, his golden body all lean muscles, moving with an agility his foe could barely keep up with. When he received a punch to the face, rupturing a lip and staining it red, Nico’s fighter only wiped it with the back of his hand and grinned through his short beard. The next punch he threw sent the younger man flat on his back and unconscious. After being announced the winner, the man walked in front of Nico’s perched seat, licking the leftover blood on his lower lip as he bowed, locking eyes with him. Nico had never been surer of anything than in that moment. This British man, Jenson, would be the one to fight for him. Seeing him like this, covered in sweat and dirt, muscles still tense from the fight, breath heavy and traces of blood that belonged as much to him as they did the losing man, Jenson looked alive. Alive and beautiful; exactly what Nico wanted his fighter to be.

For almost a year, Nico had what he wanted. Jenson fought like a champion, earning victory after victory, gold coins after gold coins, but Nico couldn’t care less about that. All he cared about was seeing Jenson fight, seeing him on full display, moving gloriously in the arena, a strange balance of fierce determination and playfulness. They grew close over the year, and even though Jenson would always be a slave, Nico hoped he knew he still was the best friend he had, the only person he’d let himself get close to, the only man he shared his bed with. Of all the things Nico had ordered Jenson to do, like fight for him, he had made sure that the decision to share a bed with him had been one made with free will.

“Fight for me today?” Nico asked just as the sun appeared on the horizon, basking his room with a warm glow.

“Yeah, of course,” Jenson replied with a smile, like he always did. He never said no, because it was never truly a question. “For you, always,” Jenson said as he cupped Nico’s face and kissed him firmly, moving his body on top of Nico, the thin navy silk sheet tangled in their legs. Nico let a small moan escape his lips, moving his hands down and over Jenson’s muscular back, squeezing his arse with both hands just as Jenson rolled his hips into him. Nico’s head sunk in the pillow as Jenson whispered in his ear, his warm breath filled with filthy words, words no one else would dare utter, and it made the heat pool inside Nico, made the world spin around him as he allowed himself to be just a man with his lover, not a prince with his slave. Jenson traced kisses down his neck, leaving bruising marks that would last for days and would require Nico to wear long scarves with his robes, and every time Jenson flashed a smile showing hints of teeth from the arena, Nico’s hand would brush against the scarf and this morning’s events would replay in his mind.

Jenson reached for the bottle of sweet almond oil on the night table and poured some in his hand, warming it up before he reached between them and wrapped his hand around Nico’s cock, sliding it easily up and down the shaft, varying the strength of his grip, fingers grazing the head at the top. Nico would have given up his right to the throne to make this moment last forever, Jenson’s hand around both their cocks, curled fingers in his long hair, Nico’s face buried in the crook of Jenson’s neck, kissing and tasting him, inhaling the very masculine smell that would linger on the bedding, the one Nico will hold on to at night when Jenson isn’t there. Nico felt the orgasm build inside him and he pulled Jenson closer to him, attempted to keep him still, to make this last just a bit longer, but Jenson whispered in his ear, “Come for me,” and it was all it took for Nico to give in to the overwhelming sensation, covering their cocks with the warm liquid, doubled seconds later when Jenson came as well, his fingers covered in come.

Jenson didn’t move off of Nico, but Nico didn’t mind, he liked being like this, Jenson’s weight on top of him, their legs bound together by the tangled sheet, their hearts beating against both chests, licking and sucking off the fingers Jenson was presenting to him one by one, their combined taste welcomed on his tongue. Neither wanted to part, but the sun had already cleared the horizon and there were fights to be won, or so they thought.

The first fight had been gruesome; Jenson had barely won over the Spaniard, coming out with multiple sword wounds, looking weary, and the playful grin that was once a permanent fixture on his face nowhere in sight. The second fight was even worse. The young German was fresh, not a scrape on his body, thirsty for blood. Nico should have called it off, should have declared forfeit and accepted the defeat. He knew Jenson didn’t stand a chance; Vettel was quicker and had more endurance. He should have called the fight off but he didn’t, because as always, he wanted to see Jenson fight, to see him pushed to his limit, to see the fire light inside him, burning as he tried to stay alive. Nico loved how beautiful it was to see him moving on instincts, with split second reactions, but when Jenson fell for the third time, he knew his fighter wasn’t getting back up to finish the fight. Vettel had won and Jenson laid on the sandy ground, clutching his side with a contorted face from the pain.

Nico ran down to the arena and knelt on the ground next to Jenson, gently lifting him up onto his lap and he looked down at his strong fighter, alive and beautiful, until Nico had decided he wanted him, until he had asked him to fight, over and over for him, just so he could see it, so he could understand, how Jenson could feel so alive, how he could look so beautiful, but now, now he was neither of those things. He was weak and hurt, his skin cool and damp to the touch, his face strained and his eyes tired. He was broken. Nico hugged him, whispering how sorry he was in Jenson’s ear, not caring for the blood that was now on his robes and on his face or for the tears in his sight. The only thing he was left with was the terrible ache of guilt, and Jenson looked up at him with forgiveness, understanding and love, but what was meant to be comforting made him ache even more. The only thing Nico could hope for and cling to as he looked into his broken fighter’s eyes is that the definition of the word broken suggested that something could be fixed, and he knew it would take years, but somehow, he would fix him.


End file.
